


Better

by codenamecynic



Series: Little Things to Save Your Life [3]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Male-Female Friendship, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-26 18:15:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20746583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/codenamecynic/pseuds/codenamecynic
Summary: Harper likes to start fights for fun; Katy does not approve. Warning for violence and mention of alcohol and drug use.





	Better

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bettydice (BettyKnight)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BettyKnight/gifts), [Fionavar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fionavar/gifts), [Dakoyone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dakoyone/gifts), [vhaerauning](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vhaerauning/gifts).

> Another vignette from the early days of Katy and Harper, pre-game.
> 
> For anyone not my party members who happens to stumble across this fic, our game takes place in a bastardized Faerun that exists between editions, and this story references characters from other posted fics. Briefly:
> 
> Katy/Ceitidh: Wild mage sorceress and Harper's best friend/semi-adopted daughter with a flair for terrible goth fashion and large explosions. ([The Rules](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19456000))

He’s here, again, like always.

It doesn’t even really matter that he doesn’t know where _here _is; everywhere is the same as it has been for weeks. Maybe months. Maybe forever. His concept of time has skewed just as badly as his sense of geography; it’s just more rain, more mud, more leaves, more rough-thatched houses and the pervasive almost-poverty of people who live off the land and not the labor of other beings. Nothing smells right, nothing feels right, and he hasn’t seen the sea in far too long, the ground too solid beneath his feet for the way he feels perpetually adrift.

Gravity, it seems, is not doing him any favors either. Harper meets the ground with a solid thump, flat on his back with his head bouncing off the graveled street. He could have rolled to the side, fallen correctly, dispersed some of the force of his landing like he knows well how to do, he just - doesn’t. The same way he didn’t dodge the punch that sent him sprawling there, into a puddle like a confused fish flopping when the tide recedes.

Idiot.

He gets back up, grinning. Mostly that’s the liquor, and whatever else had been in it. He hadn’t asked too many questions when he bought the vial, not even caring about it’s slapdash seal, the candle wax dripped around the outside to hold the stained cork in.

Whatever. Not important. He drank it and anything else he could get his hands on until everything started to slowly spin; the room, his thoughts - still an improvement, because at least it was _slowly_. For once.

Ceitidh doesn’t like it when he does this, he can tell, but she doesn’t say anything about it. She spins too, with her little delicate face scrunched up, eyebrows drawn together, firm in his orbit.

He is going to get them both fucking killed. That’s the thought he’s enjoying when a meaty fist connects with his jaw and knocks him back down to one knee, sharp stones cutting into his bare hands. Where have his gloves gone? It doesn’t matter. He can taste iron in his mouth, lip split, blood gushing from his nose and down his chin like he’s eaten something messy; bitten into his own heart, maybe.

The liquor dulls the pain, which is too bad. That’s half the reason this ever happens.

“That it?” he says, hearing himself speak without putting any effort, thought or intention behind the words, his mouth moving for itself. At least it and the rest of him are in agreement, though he can feel the telltale throbbing in his jaw. He’s still talking shit, so it’s probably not broken. “That all you got for me?”

“Stay down, you fucking crazy-” he doesn’t hear the rest of it, doesn’t even rightly see which man he’s fighting. Isn’t even really fighting, just pushing any button and pulling any lever he can see.

_“Harper-”_ Ceitidh’s there too he guesses, somewhere in the background. He can’t see her either, his vision gray and blue and narrowed to a point in front of him, wavering like a torch a long distance off. He’ll never catch that light, not even if he runs.

He’s still on the ground. He should fix that.

Harper stands up and he’s laughing - still, somehow, like he’d started long ago and can’t remember. Getting up is hard and he doesn’t make it all the way there, doubling over with a fist in his gut. That’s dangerous, it makes him want to throw up, which is somehow more pressing an issue than the way all of the air is knocked out of him, gasping for breath.

There are still voices, back and forth over his head. He can make out most of the words over the ringing in his ears.

_“Leave him alone!”_

_“Get away from me, bitch, before I-”_

“Hey.” He says, to draw the attention back to himself, deflecting danger from one weak point in the only way he knows how - by intentionally exposing another. “Fuck you.”

A boot connects with his chin and that’s the end of it.

**

He’s here, again, like always.

When he comes back to himself, his least favorite thing in the world, he still has no idea where _here_ is. He feels more than sees Ceitidh hovering over him, mostly because he can’t seem to open his eyes.

“Harper. _Harper. Please_ wake up Harper - shit, how long is this supposed to take to work?!”

“What-”

“Harper!” Ceitidh launches herself at him like a puppy and instantly he regrets everything. His chest, his stomach, his whole body hurts and his face is a mass of seething pain. And he’s wet, soaked through, his legs faintly numb with cold.

Right, he’s lying in a puddle. And it’s raining. There is something that looks like a trash pit nearby, which he can only faintly smell because his nose is too clogged with what is probably blood and maybe shards of glass, from what it feels like. If someone has literally thrown him in the trash, he will probably have deserved it.

Probably definitely.

He groans, tries to say Ceitidh’s name, but all that comes out is a low whine. She pulls back almost immediately but she’s still fucking talking, words rushing over his senses like salt being ground into open wounds, abrasive and merciless.

“Stop,” he eventually says, gingerly helping himself up out of the dirt. There’s a rotting barrel nearby and he props himself up against it. “Please stop.”

To her credit Ceitidh does, but the expression on her face is stormy and angry and worried all at once, and it hurts to look at her. He is such a fuckup, what is _wrong _with him, why is he fucking like this?

Predictably the quiet doesn’t last that long. “I thought you were going to die.”

“I’m fine.”

That is the biggest bullshit lie he’s ever said, literally seeping blood out of half his face. One eye is swollen almost shut and he can feel his lips stinging when they move, still split, but a cursory examination of his teeth with his tongue reveals that he still has all of them, and his jaw is tender but not broken. Better than he expected; better really than it should have been.

“We have to go soon. I- they wouldn’t leave you alone, he kicked you and you stopped moving, and I-” her pale face blushes but not with embarrassment, temper rising high along her cheekbones. “I _made _them stop.”

“You kill somebody?”

“No, but- we should go soon, probably.”

“Okay. Just give me a minute.”

“Harper-” Gods, there’s more.

“Ceitidh?” It hurts to talk. To breathe.

“I- I took your money. Some of your gold.” He would blink at her but his face isn’t working properly, can’t respond to the internal command. She’s chewing her bottom lip. “I bought a potion at the temple - they said it would make you better. I know you say they’re too expensive, but you were bleeding so much and you didn’t move and I thought maybe you couldn’t breathe, and I-”

“Ceitidh-”

“Why do you do this?!” Her little hands are fists and she beats them onto her thighs, which is much preferable to slamming them against his chest. “You can fight, you’re _strong _and _fast _and - you could have _killed _them, why did you let them hurt you? I don’t like it when things hurt you, I-”

“I’m sorry.”

She’s crying, again, for fuck’s sake. And it’s his fault, like usual. “Ceitidh. Katy. _Katy Katy Katy.”_

He reaches out for her, slow and awkward, ignoring the twinge in every muscle. It feels like one of his ribs must be cracked, his shitty shoulder twisted. Nothing more than he deserves, really.

Generously she lets him hug her, flinging herself into the center of his chest a touch too hard. He has to bite down on the urge to cry out, sucking in a shaky breath instead, but he deserves this too. The pain bit, not the part where some sad, precious girl child comes running to him for comfort for something he put her through in the first place.

“I’m sorry,” he says into her hair, the too-black locks wet and smooth against his face. “I’m sorry. I’ll do better.”

“You don’t have to do anything, I just want you to be okay. I can take care of you. I _will.”_

“It’s not your job.”

“You need- someone should.”

He laughs at that, but just a little. The vibration makes his bones hurt, as does the way she’s clinging to him so hard, half in and out of his lap. They really are in a garbage dump, six feet away from a midden heap having this heart to heart conversation and it’s just so appropriate he doesn’t know what else to do.

“I will do better, Katy. I… I promise you, from now on. I will do better.”

She leans back, sitting up to wipe her eyes with the backs of her hands, smearing what little makeup was still in place everywhere. It makes her look as tired as he feels, dark circles around each eye. “We should still go.”

“I know. Help me up.”


End file.
